


Crimes of Fashion

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Forced Exhibitionism, Multi, Object Insertion, Raped by Mannequins, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mia usually enjoys working the late shift by herself.





	Crimes of Fashion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DecoySocktopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/gifts).



> Nonconathon 2019 gift for DecoySocktopus. Thank you for your entertaining prompts -- I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> With thanks to my beta, who was willing to read 7000 words of mannequin sex an hour before the final deadline. All mistakes are, of course, my own.

Mia slips the clothes back on the hangers with an efficiency born of countless hours of repetition. She could do this in her sleep.

Normally she doesn’t mind closing up. It’s quiet – no rich bitch customers complaining about the slightest perceived problems, no co-workers to distract her with pointless and intrusive questions about what she’s getting up to on the weekend, no muzak burrowing in at the edge of her consciousness and slowly sapping her will to live. And, despite the concerned questions from her friends and family, she’s never felt the slightest bit unsafe. Why should she? The whole place is fitted out with security cameras, her car’s in a secure underground park, and it’s a safe part of town. She’d felt more at risk when she was walking home from afternoon shifts at the bakery a few years back.

Yeah, normally she doesn’t mind closing up at all. Tonight, however, is a different story – Andre had called in sick at the last minute with no one available to cover him, and Jaclyn had pissed off the moment her shift had ended. Not that it would’ve made much difference anyway, given how little work Jaclyn got done throughout the rest of her shift… unless popping out the back every fifteen minutes to text her shithead of a boyfriend counts as ‘working’. Not that she’ll ever face any consequences for it. Must be nice, to be able to reap the nepotism whirlwind.

Mia’s basically spent the day doing the work of three people, and, as much as she’d managed to keep things running smoothly in front of the customers, she’s now paying the price. The store looks like a bomb’s hit it, and she’s going to be here for at least another hour making sure that everything’s done.

_Speaking of…._

She checks her watch. 11:09 – she was supposed to clock out at 11:00. Not that they’re not allowed a little leeway, but staying clocked in much longer will just lead to inevitable questions about her efficiency and time management skills, and she just can’t be arsed having _that_ conversation with the manager again. Strangely enough, she has a feeling that “I was run off my feet because your idiot niece spent more time looking at her boyfriend’s clearly fake dick pics than she did serving the customers” won’t fly as an excuse.

Allowing herself a small sigh, she heads out to the back corridor and punches her code into the timecard system, curling and stretching out her aching toes as she waits for the all-clear –

_The hell?!_

Mia jumps as a sudden clattering sound comes from within the store, though it’s more just from startlement than actual fear. She waits a few seconds longer, but whatever it is that caused the initial racket seems to have stopped; she heads back, a little cautious, but mostly just annoyed.

If the handbag display rack has collapsed again, she’s going to lose her shit. For such a high-end store, the fittings are cheap as hell.

Everything seems fine. Except… she’d _swear_ that put that red silk shirt back on its hanger after one of the customers oh-so-kindly dumped it on the changeroom floor. But now it’s just… not there.

Maybe she’s just seeing things? She hasn’t had a break since five o’clock, after all, and that wasn’t so much a “break” as a “shove sandwich down throat before returning to survey the damage” kind of thing.

She peers around a rack crammed with truly ugly jackets, trying to ignore the way that her heart seems to be thudding into her sternum with each beat. And okay, there’s the explanation – one of the mannequins in the shopfront display has fallen over.

Her knees go just the tiniest bit shaky in relief, even as she mutters imprecations under her breath. Did Jaclyn decide to just… not bother to attach the mannequin to the base? Has it been balanced here all this time, just waiting to topple over? Surely not – surely she would’ve noticed. But today _has_ been kind of insane, so… maybe?

She crouches down, wincing as her knees pop, and turns the mannequin over. It stares back at her from behind its oversized sunglasses, which are somehow miraculously still perched upon its nose.

… Whatever. It’s late, she’s hangry, and there’s no time to be weirdly creeped out by a chunk of fibreglass.

She hauls it back upright, sliding it back onto the base and giving its clothes a perfunctory straighten. God, Jaclyn was _definitely_ responsible for this – who the hell else would decide to create such an unholy mix-and-match of business and casual? Who else would decide to take a mannequin that was obviously done up to display a workplace-appropriate look, and then dump a giant straw hat on its head and no less than three different necklaces around its neck? Is she _trying_ to get fired?

Mia has a quick glance around at the other models on display, and… yeah, they’re not much better. Her fingers itch with the urge to return them to a respectable state, but she just doesn’t have the time – even though she’s clocked out, she wouldn’t put it past management to review the time she actually left the building and ask for a please explain. She’ll be on again tomorrow, anyway – she can do something about it then.

She shakes her head a little as she finishes adjusting the unfortunate mannequin that found its way onto the floor, smoothing out the creases around its waist as best she can. Honestly, she wouldn’t blame the thing if it took its bloody revenge upon all and sundry for being made to look that awful.

Anyway. There’s no time to worry about these things. She eases her way out from the window display and hurries back to the changerooms, grabbing the clothes that need to be returned back to their racks and decidedly _not_ worrying about that silk shirt. Clearly she just hung it up earlier and forgot about it; it must be on the rack with all the others.

She hastily jams the hangers back on the racks, trying not to pay attention to the way that every small sound she makes seems amplified more than usual. It’s just jitteriness from the surprise she got when the mannequin fell over; it’s nothing to worry about. Of course it’s quiet – it’d be more concerning if it weren’t! What could there possibly be in a place like this to be worried about? The ghosts of dissatisfied customers, come to demand a refund and store credit?

With that job out the way, she moves on to re-folding the clothes scattered across the sale display. The lights overhead seem just a bit too bright, the faint fluorescent hum that she would normally tune out instead catching at her ears, and she finds herself folding and straightening faster than usual.

Her fingers tighten around the cashmere jumper in her hands as, once more, the sound of something clattering to the ground breaks the stillness. She _knows_ that it’s just something else that’s been done half-arsed and left to fall over – logically, what else could it be? – but this time it’s coming from the storeroom out the back, which is just weird.

Should she investigate? Maybe she should just leave it. If something’s broken, then there’s nothing she can do about it, and calling attention will just increase the chances of whatever it is being blamed on her.

… Or maybe the problem will just come and investigate _her_. Because there’s definitely something moving towards her.

She freezes; the only part of her capable of movement is her eyes, which strain sideways in an attempt to see the back of the shop. And – there, behind a rack of skirts, is… _something_ heaving its way across the floor. The fuck, the _fuck_ – it can’t be human, there’s no way, and she’s really not sure whether that makes it better or worse. It’s, like, _part_ of a human, but there’s no reason why part of a human would be clawing its way across the floor of a closed designer boutique in the middle of the night, or at any time, really, and the sound of her breath is way too loud in her ears.

Or – wait. _Wait._ She’s so fucking stupid – it’s just a mannequin torso that’s fallen off its shelf in the storeroom and tumbled out the door into the store. Sure, it’s a long way for it to bounce, but weirder things have happened. See, it’s not moving now, right? And okay, so it’s a bit weird for a torso in storage to be wearing a red silk shirt, but – but – 

The torso flops towards her again, undeniably under its own steam, and the only reason she’s not screaming is that there isn’t enough air in her lungs. She watches out the corner of her eye as it twitches and judders, hauling itself along on arms that seem to be moving more smoothly now, fingers bending and finding purchase against the floor – and she needs to move, she needs to get out of here, but that _thing_ is between her and the exit, and shit, why is she so scared of a mannequin torso? What the hell can it possibly do to her?

That’s it – she’s going to make a run for it.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she steels herself for a moment, before taking off as fast as her legs and less-than-sensible shoes can carry her. The torso’s in her way, tensed, as if it’s about to spring forth; she sends it flying with a savage kick, and it crashes into the wall.

_Thank fuck, thank fuck._

She’s home free, out the door and into the back corridor – there’s an emergency exit she can reach from here, she just has to –

Her face slams into the concrete floor before she can register the iron grip around her ankle, and her vision goes black for several long moments while she tries to work out where she is and what the hell’s going on. There’s a painful dragging sensation all along the front of her body, her head hurts, her ankle hurts, and now her side hurts as well as it bangs into something. 

She opens her eyes and blinks them back into focus, just in time to see herself being hauled back into the store by – by –

She does scream this time, though it’s short and sharp. The mannequin torso is pulling itself along with one hand while dragging her with the other, and her attempts to kick it with her free foot are getting her nowhere. These things are fragile, what the hell – they get damaged at the drop of a hat – why the fuck can’t she put a dent in this one?!

It flips her onto her back before she knows what’s happening, and okay, now maybe she has a chance, maybe she can shake herself free and make another run for it… or maybe there are a whole lot of mannequins just crowding around her and pinning her arms and legs to the floor, sitting on her torso and crushing the air from her lungs, stroking her sides with awkward, stiff fingers, and this is not happening, this is definitely not happening, because this is fucking _stupid_. Maybe someone slipped something into her water bottle and she’s tripping balls right now, because there’s no way in hell that she’s getting sexually harassed by a bunch of handsy store mannequins.

And there’s certainly no way in hell she’s getting felt up by a naked, headless mannequin. Because the dummy sitting on her chest is just that: one of the female ones, its creepy, unnaturally smooth breasts static as it shifts its weight, its empty neck tilting to one side as it looks at her with apparent curiosity. Can it actually see her? Can any of them actually see her? Is _she_ actually seeing any of this, or is she just rolling around on the floor in some kind of delusional state? Maybe the long hours have finally got to her, and she’s cracked. It’s not really the form she’d like her nervous breakdown to take, but, well, she supposes that’s generally the way that nervous breakdowns tend to go.

The headless one is definitely groping Mia’s tits now, pressing hard into them with the unforgiving palms of its hands, and Mia can’t help but yell in outrage, words pouring out of her mouth without any particular thought given as to what they actually are. There is no way she’s getting paid enough for this bullshit, and she’s mentally composing her resignation letter even as she struggles futilely against the mannequins’ uncompromising grip, since apparently there’s nothing else she can do right now. Where her mouth is incoherent, her mind is strangely calm.

_Dear Ms Moore,_

_I am writing to you today, the 6th of July, 2019, to advise you that I am resigning from my position effective immediately, due to reasons of being incompatible with your workplace culture._

_Kind regards,_

_Mia Knowles._

_P.S. You should know that your niece gave her boyfriend a handjob in the storeroom on the 22nd of June, and left me to clean up the stains. She wasn’t on her lunch break at the time._

_P.P.S. You should also know that your attempts at cost-cutting have led to an issue where you have purchased super-strong mannequins that apparently have a penchant for sexually assaulting your staff. You may wish to look into a new supplier._

It’s no good – that damn headless freak is still just slowly, mechanically massaging her tits, though now it’s moved on from “pressing” and is now in more of a “cupping” kind of mode, and – Mia laughs helplessly as she realises what’s going on, the sound sudden and loud in the uncanny silence. The thing is actually trying to measure her bra size, what the fuck.

“I’ll save you the trouble,” she gasps. “16B! Shit! Just stop doing that already.” She’s going going to have bruises if this keeps up, and she knows that it’s really the least of her concerns, but, well, she’ll take any victory she can get.

The mannequin looks up and over its shoulder, as if seeking approval of some kind. Mia follows its non-existent gaze, only to see the one from earlier – the one in the awful outfit that fell down in the window display. It’s still wearing the same shitty ensemble as before, except that now it’s accessorised with a couple of handbags. Christ.

She watches, entranced, as it staggers towards the lingerie section and starts stiffly flicking through the display, apparently in search of just the right pair of underwear, and that’s it, she can’t take it anymore. She has to get out of here.

She sizes up her captors – or the ones she can see, anyway – and it doesn’t look good. There’s the headless one straddling her midsection; one arm is held down by the torso from before in its red silk shirt, apparently lacking the fine motor control required to do up the buttons, while her other arm and one of her legs are being held down by mannequins that, at least, appear to be in possession of a full complement of arms, legs, and heads. Her other leg is being pinned by, well, a pair of legs, and she doesn’t know how it’s managing it, but it’s got her held tight. She tests each part of herself in turn, trying to subtly slide each limb free, but these fuckers somehow have a grip like iron despite their stiff fingers; her joints seem to creak under their tightening grasp, and she bucks and thrashes now, trying to throw them off any way she can, full-blown panic finally cutting through the confusion and disbelief.

The ringleader looms over her, her arms loaded down with clothes and accessories, and she stares at Mia from behind her sunglasses. Mia stares back, and tries very hard not to throw up.

There’s a long moment of silence broken only by Mia’s bitten-back whimpers, before the mannequin drops everything on the ground next to her and turns on its heel, heading towards the counter. It rummages through the drawers, and Mia watches, terrified, as it apparently gives up on finding what it’s looking for and just yanks the whole drawer out, before tottering back over towards her with the whole damn drawer in its arms. She practically jumps out of her skin as the drawer crashes to the ground next to her head, its contents spilling across the floor, and what the hell do they want with her, oh _God_ –

The one that’s sitting on her midsection apparently takes that as its cue to tear her shirt open, sending the buttons flying, and the part of her mind that isn’t in a blind hysterical panic laments the ruination of her best work shirt – that thing wasn’t cheap, even with the employee discount, and somehow _this_ is the straw that broke the camel’s back. She strains against her captors, breath quick and harsh in the eerie silence, as she watches the ringleader methodically, unhurriedly searching through the contents of the drawer. What is she – _shit_ –

Mia feels her eyes widening as the mannequin holds up its prize: a pair of scissors. No, no, there are only so many things that you can do with a pair of scissors, and not a single one of them is acceptable in this situation. The one sitting on her stomach slides down until it’s pressing down on her thighs instead, and the ringleader passes the scissors to it; Mia hears herself begging as it takes them in both hands, hooking its fingers through the handles and bringing them down towards Mia’s legs with glacial slowness.

She closes her eyes. There’s no choice. This absolutely cannot be happening, definitely not, and if she doesn’t look, maybe it won’t happen at all –

The sound of tearing fabric startles her eyes open; she looks down, to see that it’s merely… cutting off her skirt? Hot tears of relief pool in the corners of her eyes, and she watches helplessly as her skirt is slowly sheared in half, the blades of the scissors getting _way_ too close to sensitive skin for comfort, but it’s still far better than the alternative.

The skirt falls away, and… now it’s going for her underwear. Her heart hammers in her ears as the blades twist and slide under the waistband, cold against her too-hot skin, and she shudders in a combination of fear and sudden arousal as she hears that _snip_ ; her underpants fall away, and she shivers as a cool gust of air from the airconditioning passes over her. She barely notices or cares as her bra is also cut away, although a part of her is grateful that they’ve left her stockings and suspenders intact, and her shoes on – it lets her pretend that she’s not lying here fully exposed in the middle of the store, pinned down by a bunch of horny mannequins with all of her bits on display.

Muzak suddenly bursts out of the store speakers, tinny and indifferent, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

She’s barely been registering that there are a bunch of other mannequins wandering the store until now, taking things off the shelves and bringing them to their leader. Part of her is despairing of the mess, but she’d more than happily stay here all night cleaning if it meant she could just get out of this fucking stupid situation.

She watches them now. One of them is bringing armloads of jewellery; another is carrying the wigs that they use for the displays. 

Suddenly, it comes to her, and she almost laughs in giddy relief. They’re not here to have their way with her. Well, they _are,_ but not in _that_ way.

They’re here to play dress-up.

She can handle that. If a bunch of frustrated store mannequins want to put clothes on her, well, she can let them. She won’t even fight back.

Mia relaxes, allowing herself to go limp, trying to give her best impression of someone who wants to be groped and prodded by giant living dolls. They’re still ridiculously strong; she doesn’t want to be injured any more than she already has been.

And maybe they get the message, because they loosen their grip a little and start moving her around, lifting her legs so that they can slide a lacy black g-string onto her, manhandling her into a sitting position so that they can remove the remains of her shirt and try to manoeuvre her into a matching lace bra. The low-cut shirt they’re trying to jam her arms into is way too small, though, and the ringleader seems to realise this – it motions for one of the others, and the other scurries off to bring her a range of sizes. Mia giggles only a little hysterically as they hold up shirts next to her and appear to confer amongst themselves; this is almost fun, in a way, being the customer for once. Better than the alternative, anyway, and –

She remembers too late that in order to dress mannequins, you take them apart.

One of them, apparently frustrated at its inability to get her arm through the sleeve, is now wrenching at her shoulder, trying to yank her arm clean out of its socket, and she screams. It stares at her quizzically, still pulling, and she starts begging – _please, please, just let go, oh my God, let me do it, please_ – and the ringleader puts its hand on the mannequin’s shoulder. After a moment, it lets go; Mia gingerly eases her arm through the sleeve, and then the other one, trying not to sob at how much it hurts.

“Thank you,” she whispers, because it seems the right thing to do; she buttons the shirt up while she’s at it, because she doubts they’d be able to manage it, before lying back down again.

She lies there while they drag a skirt up onto her hips – half-noticing that it’s the shortest skirt the store sells, the horny fucks – and while they pull half the buttons off her new shirt as well. Clearly they just want to put her on display, and that’s fine, whatever, she can deal with that. She supposes that it’s only fair.

Bangles and bracelets are looped around her wrists, and necklaces around her neck; she gags as at least three different perfumes are sprayed in her face, and as the pungent smell of nail polish assaults her nostrils. They jab at her face with lipstick and makeup brushes, jam different wigs on her head and confer silently over which one they prefer, slide sunglasses over her eyes. She lies there and takes it, absently spreading her fingers so as not to damage the drying polish, and tries not to think about how much her shoulder hurts. Or her head, for that matter, or the bits of her that got dragged over the floor. She hadn’t noticed it all that much earlier, what with everything that was going on, but now that she has some time to think, she realises just how much she aches, and how much her head is ringing.

She starts paying attention again when the headless one hesitates above her. In her hands are a pair of big, dangly earrings, and – oh. _Oh._

Mia doesn’t have pierced ears.

Her breath catches in her throat as the mannequin holds the earrings above her, the posts seeming to glint in the too-bright light, and shit, she got complacent, she _cannot_ handle this –

The mannequin seems to come to the decision that it doesn’t know what to do with them, and tosses them aside. Mia sighs shakily, her whole body trembling, and closes her eyes in relief.

A sudden intrusion between her legs opens them right back up again, along with her mouth; she screams at the pain and scrambles back, only to be shoved down by too-strong hands. She stares down in horror, to see the headless one jamming one of its fingers right into her, the other hand pushing her underwear to the side. The pain is incredible, the thin thread of sudden arousal behind it even worse; she cries out as the finger probes deeper, unyielding in its stiffness, its permanently crooked shape. It’s one of the models with the splayed fingers; there’s no way it could get more than one of them into her at a time, which, she supposes, is a small mercy.

“Oh God,” she breathes as she watches it, and _it_ appears to be watching as well, its headless neck focusing its attention intently on the way its finger slowly moves in and out of her cunt.

It shakes its head – how can she tell?! – and turns to the ringleader. The ringleader gestures, and one of the others hurries off towards the storeroom. In the meantime, the headless one just continues pumping its finger in and out, over and over, and Mia feels herself getting wet despite herself. The fuck is happening, she can’t deal with this –

The other one limps back from the storeroom, and Headless removes its finger from inside Mia to take whatever the other one is giving it. Mia exhales a long, juddering breath, and takes a moment to collect herself while Headless unscrews its hand and replaces it with a new one.

While it _what_ –

She screams loud and clear this time, as the hand slowly but steadily works its whole way inside her, and oh God, oh God. _The Fisting Hand,_ she and Andre had joked whenever they’d be attaching it to one of the mannequins – but it’s _really_ fucking unfunny now, spreading her wide open and splitting her in two right down the middle, jamming itself into her cunt over and over again beyond anything that should be humanly possible. She cries out and writhes within the grip of her captors, and it’s awful, it’s so fucking awful, but there’s a part of it that’s also really good – she hasn’t gotten laid in ages, and she sure as hell’s never had anything like _this_ before, oh _God_. Her muscles spasm around the intrusion as it thrusts in and out, enormous and terrible, but also sliding across places that make her gasp and twitch; she’s wet for it now, and she can’t even feel particularly ashamed, because it’s the only thing keeping her from being torn in half.

The ringleader is there as well, peering down at her curiously as its headless henchwoman fist-fucks her cunt; it pulls out a compact mirror from one of its handbags and adjusts it until it reflects right back into Mia’s eyes, and she watches, entranced and horrified, as the hand disappears inside her over and over and over again.

“Oh God,” she whispers, “oh God,” and she thinks she could come from this, even through the pain and humiliation, and she doesn’t care, “oh God –”

Her back arches, and she cries out as the hand withdraws partway, stretching the entrance of her cunt to the limit. One more thrust will do it – one more thrust and she’s there, and maybe they’ll be satisfied, maybe they’ll let her go –

 _Or maybe they’ll just keep doing it over and over again,_ a treacherous voice inside her head whispers, and her body shudders in something that probably isn’t quite disgust –

An anticipatory moan drags itself from her throat as she moves to meet the final thrust, to bring the hand deeper within herself. It takes her a moment to realise that the thrust never came, her overstimulated nerves firing confused signals. Why – ?

She forces her eyes open, to see that the mannequins are apparently in some kind of deep discussion. She’s not sure how she knows that they’re having a discussion, given that the only sounds in the room are the strangely jaunty trumpets coming through the store’s sound system and her own desperate gasps, but that’s obviously exactly what’s going on.

The headless one nods its neck, and then Mia screams, because it’s unscrewing its hand from its arm while it’s still inside her. The hand turns and turns within her cunt, each knuckle and finger dragging against her walls, the area across the palm stretching her entrance impossibly wide as it moves. It’s awful, it’s fucking awful, and she can’t stop watching every last bit of it in the mirror. And now Headless is also missing a hand, and oh, it’s using its stump to push its hand back inside her. She squirms as the hand goes deeper, until it’s all the way in, and… what? Are they just going to leave it there? It sits inside her, heavy and massive, seeming to fill up every possible bit of space inside her and then some.

… Yeah, okay, looks like it’s going to be there for the duration. They clearly have no intention of removing it, and there’s no way she can get it out herself, no matter how much the muscles of her cunt shudder and contract. How far in is that thing jammed, anyway? Is she going to have to go to the hospital and be all, “oh, yeah, I was changing out the mannequins in the display, and then I tripped and fell vag-first on The Fisting Hand”? Is there any way that today can _get_ any worse?

Stupid question. Stupid, _stupid_ question. She’d kick herself for even thinking it, if she could.

The ringleader is trying to get one of its own necklaces off – idiot dummy doesn’t seem to realise that it needs to take its ridiculous straw hat off first, but the hat’s going to get knocked off at some point – and, while Mia has no idea what any of this means, there’s definitely no way it can be anything good.

She watches with a strange mixture of detachment, fear, and frustration as the mannequin struggles to remove the necklace. It’s almost tempting to offer to help it, just to put them all out of their collective misery and get this whole thing over and done with.

Eventually the ringleader manages to get its hat off with some assistance from Headless, and the necklace after it. It sinks down to its unarticulated knees with an awkward stiffness that has no right to be even mildly scary, but which is somehow downright terrifying.

It holds its prize up for Mia to see: a long pearl necklace, looped around and tied in a large knot.

Mia blinks. Okay…? She’s already wearing a bunch of necklaces, thanks to her overenthusiastic assistants earlier on, but she can wear another one. What difference does one more bit of crap make, at this point?

She lifts her head a little so that the ringleader can more easily loop the necklace around her neck, but it shakes its bald head. It lowers the necklace down between Mia’s legs, and she watches, transfixed, as it pushes her g-string to the side once more.

_Shit! Is it going to – there’s no more room in there!_

It’s hard to know, really, whether it’s better or worse that the mannequin has decided to skip her cunt, and is instead making a move on her arse. There _is_ more room there, sure, but that’s absolutely not the point. She’s way too boring for this kinky stuff at the best of times, and she’s definitely not at her best right now.

Her laughter doesn’t sound entirely sane to her own ears. “No, no – please – come on, you don’t want to ruin your nice necklace, do you? I know how expensive it is.”

The mannequin pauses for a moment, before making a stilted sweeping motion that seems to encompass the entire store. Its meaning is clear: _All of this is mine._

Mia swallows hard. _True enough._

The first pearl goes into her arse surprisingly easily; it hurts a little, but nothing like the hand did. Not that she should be surprised – they’re large as far as pearls go, but still fairly small in the grand scheme of things. 

The second, the third… it gets easier the more she gets used to it, but the repeated action is starting to rub her raw, and it’s not like the mannequin is gentle. At least it’s only using one finger, for which she is incredibly grateful. The feeling of the finger easing inside her arse when her cunt is already stuffed full is overwhelming enough; she can’t imagine how awful it would be if it was jamming another hand inside her.

The ringleader looks up from its ministrations, and Mia tries to bring herself to meet its gaze. It’s hard to see much of it at all through the sunglasses – both pairs of sunglasses, because they’re both wearing them, this whole thing is so _stupid_ – but somehow she manages, and the blank stare that greets her sends a shudder up her spine.

It gestures at her with the necklace – the bit of it that isn’t shoved up her arse, anyway – and Mia frowns. What on earth could it possibly want her to do? What is there left that she _can_ do?

The mannequin holding her right arm suddenly releases her – she’d almost forgotten about the others, in amongst all the butt necklaces and whatnot – and the ringleader grabs her hand before she can fully work the feeling back into her arm.

She struggles, but the ringleader’s unyielding grip tightens with each movement she makes, and so she lets it lead her hand down to her own arse. It takes her finger and prods at her arsehole with it, before threading the necklace through her fingers and guiding them back to her arse.

_It wants me to – oh, fuck –_

Does she have a choice? Really, does she have a choice? She’s not sure whether doing this to herself will allow her to retain more of her dignity than letting them do it to her would, but at this point, she’s willing to take the option that’s likely to hurt less.

Biting her lip, she eases one of the pearls into herself, exhaling slowly as it goes in. The mannequins watch her expectantly; the ringleader raises a hand as if in warning, and she gets the message: _Get a move on_.

She presses another one in, and then another, trying not to wonder too much at how they’re all going to fit in there. There’s no way she can get her finger up far enough into herself to get the whole lot in, but, well, that’s a problem for Future Mia. Present Mia is too busy just trying to get these first ones in, her breath coming faster as the pain starts to mingle with pleasure.

A slight movement catches the corner of her eye, and she risks turning her head ever so slightly. And – there.

The security camera in the corner of the room definitely just moved a little.

The bottom drops out of Mia’s stomach; she gasps, her fingers faltering in their movement. After a moment’s pause, the mannequin brings her back to the present with an iron grip around her arm, a clear directive to get moving, and she goes back to pushing the necklace inside herself even as she stares at the camera in horror.

It definitely wouldn’t normally be pointing here – not at this time of night. This camera usually points more towards the cash register.

Somebody’s watching.

Her face feels like it’s melting right off, her skin is that hot; a noise escapes her throat despite herself.

Somebody is watching her fuck her own arse with her fingers right now. Somebody knows that she has a fucking _hand_ stuck up her cunt.

But – that’s good, right? It means that someone knows she’s here, that Security know what’s going on and are going to come and rescue her any minute. Not that the thought of anyone seeing her like this is good – it’s too hideous to contemplate too closely, or, hell, at all – but she’s starting to think that the only alternative is getting honest-to-God fucked to death by store mannequins, and, just, no. Alive, she can get out of this, even if it means bribing the guards for their silence; she’ll sell her car if she has to, she’ll go into debt, it doesn’t matter. Dead, the story will worm its way so deep into the recesses of the internet that it’ll become an urban legend, picking up more and more outlandish details as it goes. Her name will become a byword for freakish sex accidents. Her parents – shit, they’re far too nice to even be able to comprehend any of this.

_Not thinking about them right now. Fuck._

Her fingers keep working the beads mechanically, her body falling into the rhythm of it, and she exhales shakily as her finger runs around the edge of her arse. The little fuckers are small, but after a while, they add up – she’s honestly not sure how many more she can fit in, and between that and the hand, she feels like she’s about to burst.

There can’t be that many more to go, surely – oh.

She’d forgotten that the necklace had been tied in a knot towards the end.

She looks up at the ringleader. It stares back dispassionately through its sunglasses.

“I, ah, haha, I think I’m done? I can’t fit any more in. Thanks, though.”

The ringleader wraps its hand around Mia’s. The force it exerts is incredible: there’s nothing she can do to resist as the mannequin’s hand forces Mia’s fingers up against the knot, pressing it slowly but inexorably past her entrance and into her arse. She cries out as she stretches around it, as it overcomes her resistance and moves up inside her, and the pressure inside her body is at breaking point.

And yet… she can’t help but leave her finger inside herself, stroking at her walls, thrusting it in and out a little. She’s not being made to do this – the mannequin has withdrawn its hand and is now tugging at the end of the necklace as it dangles from her arse, seemingly satisfied with its handiwork.

Mia moans as there’s sudden pressure on her clit – the ringleader is rubbing its knee against her, and then it presses _down_ with enough force to have Mia screaming as she comes, juddering and spasming around all the crap that’s been jammed inside her, arching up against the mannequin despite every single bit of good sense telling her otherwise.

She’s never come so hard in all her life. Fuck. _Fuck._ She can barely stay conscious.

The mannequin strokes the hair of her wig with something that could almost be considered tenderness, and Mia supposes that if Security were going to help her, they’d be here by now.

She lets unconsciousness claim her.

*

Mia becomes aware of a number of things as she slowly regains consciousness.

She’s on her hands and knees, restrained and propped up.

Her legs are spread wide.

Her g-string has been pulled halfway down her thighs, stretched tight between her legs.

Her skirt is riding up high enough to not be covering anything at all.

The necklace is still dangling from her arse, and the hand is still jammed inside her cunt, her come slowly leaking around it.

One of her tits is hanging out of her shirt.

Her underwear – the original pair that were cut off her – have been jammed into her mouth.

Everything aches.

The orange quality of the light means that it’ll be morning soon.

The props and accessories surrounding her are part of the window display.

… Oh.

She pulls with increasing desperation at her bonds, but it quickly becomes apparent that she’s not going to have any luck – they’ve tied her up with belts and stockings and necklaces, and she’s not going anywhere. Nope, she’s going to be stuck on display in this window until someone gets her out of here, and – ah.

Shit.

How’d she forget? They’re closed for the public holiday. There’ll still be plenty of people walking past – there’s been perfect weather forecast, and plenty of restaurants will be open – but no one’s going to be coming into the shop.

She hangs her head exhaustedly. This is it, then – there’s no getting out of this. Her only hope is that maybe nobody will recognise her, what with the wig and the glasses and everything, but she doesn’t like her chances. Maybe she can move across the country and live a quiet life with her sister – didn’t she say that she had an in with the woman who ran the used car dealership, if she ever wanted a change of pace?

A tugging sensation brings her back to herself, and she moans around the gag, her arse clenching. Someone’s pulling at the end of the necklace – someone’s here, oh _fuck_ –

She cranes her head back over her shoulder. It takes her several seconds to identify the ringleader: it’s changed its outfit and ditched all the tacky bullshit, opting for a sleeker, more sophisticated look, but it’s definitely the same one.

It turns its head to look at Mia, and she would swear that it smiles.


End file.
